In Memory
by Carol
Summary: After Sam's departure to Stanford, John and Dean battle each other's broken hearts while hunting a powerful witch hell bent on avenging her dead son. Can the Winchester's put their anguish aside to defeat her or will Dean become her ultimate sacrifice?
1. Prologue

**In Memory**

**By Carol M **

**Summary: In the days after Sam's departure to Stanford, John and Dean battle each other's broken hearts while hunting a powerful witch, hell bent on avenging her dead son. Can the elder Winchesters put aside their family anguish to save the latest victim and escape the witch's terrifying clutches? Or will Dean become her ultimate sacrifice, causing John to lose both of his sons forever? Hurt!Angsty!Dean , Angsty! John, hurt/comfort**

**Word Count: 15,050**

**Spoilers: Pre series**

**Warnings: None**

**Disclaimer: Don't own them, only love them**

**Note: This is a loose sequel to my previous story In These Black Days, which has Dean getting shot and Sam struggling with the Stanford decision. No need to have read that one to understand this one. Special thanks to my wonderful artist caluk who brought my story to life with absolutely beautiful images and also to my beta ****machabadbneman** **who saw everything that I couldn't and made this story what I wanted it to be. Special thanks to reapertownusa for hosting this wonderful big bang. Thanks so much for having me and I can't wait til next year. On with the story!**

**Prologue**

No one told me the way I should feel  
>You left an aching heart<br>Lost and lonely, the feeling goes on  
>You were the one friend I had<br>You gave me so much love  
>Now the tears remind me you're gone<p>

It still haunts me there's a silence  
>Where you used to be<br>It still haunts me  
>Just an empty space in history<br>It still haunts me  
>But life must go on, on and on<p>

It's still haunting me  
>It's still haunting me<br>Haunting me  
>Haunting me<p>

In Memory by Black Sabbath

**Teaser**

John could still feel the warmth of Dean's breath blowing across his neck every few, albeit long, moments. There was still a chance. His son wasn't dead yet.

With a scamper nearly worthy of a sprint, John shucked past tree after tree with Dean's limp body cradled in his arms, continuously hoping that just beyond the next branch he'd find the Impala and get the transportation to the life-saving care Dean so desperately needed.

"It's gotta be close," John muttered to himself, hating the silence that served as Dean's reply.

John renewed the pressure on the bloody stab wound in Dean's chest and pressed his head against Dean's, blood from a gash on his son's forehead staining his own cheek. "You stay alive, you hear me. That's an order!"

Dean didn't stir.

John never felt more alone in his life than he did at that moment, not even the night when he had lost Mary and this whole detour into hell had started. If Sam's departure had left a thick chasm of loss and misery in his soul, Dean's death would crush him and he wouldn't survive it. He'd have nothing left to lose and nothing remaining to live for.

A glint of metal caught his eye and John nearly dropped his bloodied, lifeless burden, he was that relieved. He sped up his step, acutely aware now of how much Dean weighed and how far he'd hefted him through the woods, as his body physically ached with the charge. Closer and closer the shine of the metal came, looking less and less like a mirage and more and more like salvation as relief flooded through his veins.

Then his heart dropped from out of his chest and landed at his feet. "No," he gasped in a choked breath bordering on a sob.

The back tire was flat, which wouldn't have been a problem as he'd got the spare, except for the fact that the front tire was flat too. So was the front one on the other side. And the back one too. She had done this. John knew it in his gut. Even in the end, that bitch was making sure she got her revenge. Making sure she got the last laugh.

John collapsed to the ground as his body gave out on him, taking Dean down with him. "I'm sorry," John whispered, pulling Dean in a tight hug against him, his hand coming up to rub Dean's hair and the back of his neck. John fought back tears as he drew Dean even tighter against him, tucking Dean's head under his own, his chin resting on Dean's hair as arms squeezed around his son like a vise, desperate to still feel the life that was slowly ebbing out of him.

"I'm so sorry." John couldn't control the tears that sprung out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, their final resting place in Dean's bloody, matted hair.

TBC


	2. Part One

**Part One**

There were only so many things that could fill the jagged gorge left by Sam's departure and fortunately for John and Dean Winchester, most all of those things could be found under one roof.

Mike's Cocktails.

Mike was actually short for Michelle, a fact that John had pleasantly discovered as he sat down at the shiny, sturdy oak bar and ordered his first shot. Mike, who looked a little like Ellen, but with red hair, slammed down the whiskey John had ordered along with a beer.

"That'll be 8.50," she murmured, not paying much attention to John. Instead her focus went to a series of pictures of a little blonde boy posted behind the bar with a missing sign hung over them. The kid looked sort of like Dean when he'd been just a boy.

John forked over some cash. "Who's the kid?"

"My son," said Mike, not meeting John's eye. "He went to play in the woods last week and I haven't seen him since. Town sheriff and his deputies did a sweep but didn't find anything."

"Sorry," said John, taking his shot. "I've lost some family, but when it's your kids, it's extra tough. I'll keep an eye out for him."

Mike's eyes tilted up to meet John's and she flashed him a sad smile. "Thanks."

John leaned back and sipped at his beer, letting his body unwind and relax. It was late, almost one and he'd spent most of the night holed up in the abandoned house they'd been squatting in the past few weeks, finishing up some research for the hunt they were starting the next day. The hunt they should've started a week and a half ago. But since that horrible night, it was a challenge for just to get out of bed and remember to breathe. They were both still bleeding over Sam and a hunt had been more than either of their shattered hearts and souls could've handled, not that either of them would admit it. John was pissed and scared and felt betrayed by his youngest son. The worst part was every time he looked at Dean and saw the same feelings reflecting back in his eyes, John wanted to throttle him. He hated himself for it.

So John had buried himself in research, needing to become an expert on Clara Wells, the ancient witch who had a bad habit of kidnapping and then burning three local boys both on her son's birthday and on the anniversary of his death. The boy's death was caused by locals, almost 200 years earlier, who were desperate to expose her as a witch. The irony was, before the locals had murdered her son, Jacob, Clara had only dabbled in the dark arts. After his murder, however, Clara had taken to her studies and become one of the most powerful witches that John had ever heard of. Taking her off the map would be a huge victory for him and Dean, eradicating a great evil from the earth.

That is if he and Dean could get on the same page and shift their focus to the case.

While John was enjoying one or two nightcaps to settle his nerves and to allow him to get some sleep before they took off in the morning, Dean was having a having a full on one-man frat party. He had left for Mike's at 9 and from the looks of him, hadn't stopped drinking since he'd walked in the door.

Currently, Dean was in the back room, none too nonchalantly hustling pool with a guy the size of an oak tree. Dean was sloppy drunk, spilling his drink, making exaggerated googly eyes at the ladies and slurring mouthfuls of smartass comments to his larger opponent. It wasn't a matter of if Dean was going to get his ass kicked. It was a matter of when.

It happened fifteen minutes later.

Dean was laughing hysterically and holding up a wad of cash with his hands in the air, belly exposed, when Oak Tree pile drove his fist right into Dean's gut. It wouldn't have been so bad if Dean weren't still recovering from a gut shot wound from two months earlier, that had left his stomach sore and sensitive on occasion. As Dean took the punch, his face drained of color and he curled down onto himself, dropping like a dead weight to the floor. Oak Tree picked him up and began pummeling his face with punch after punch, one blow striking so hard that John was sure Dean's nose had been broken as blood began to run in rivers down his face.

By the time John had jumped off his barstool and gotten over to his son, Dean was laid out on the ground barely conscious, taking soccer ball kicks to the kidneys.

"Get off him. Now!" John commanded, his voice granite.

Oak Tree wound up his leg and tore into Dean with one last vicious kick, once again sinking into the old bullet wound. Dean cried out with a pained shriek of surprise and seemed to collapse in on himself, his whole body locking itself up against the pain.

"You gonna make me?" Oak Tree taunted.

John pulled his gun from his waistband and aimed it at the man's chest. "Yeah, I am. Get off of him!"

Oak Tree clenched his jaw and backed away. "Fine. But I'm taking the money."

John picked up the wad of cash and tucked it in his pocket, still training the gun on the man. "Really?"

Oak Tree glared at him and shook his head before skulking off. He was quickly replaced by Mike. "Sweetie pie, there aint no weapons allowed in my bar."

"I'm sorry," John said, tucking his gun back in his pants. "But it was necessary."

Mike eyed Dean on the floor with clear sympathy. " I suppose it was. Get him out of here."

"Will do," said John, pulling the wad of cash out of his pocket. He tossed it at Mike. "For the trouble."

Mike caught the cash with a look of muted surprise on her face. "Hospital's down the road."

"Thanks." John knelt down next to Dean, grimly taking in his pale face and quivering frame. His son's eyes were clenched shut against the agony and his body was still folded in half trying to recover from the gut kick.

"Dean, we gotta go, kiddo."

Dean let out a shaky moan and tried to straighten out, but the action left him panting for air.

"Come on, I gotcha," John said, wiping the blood away from Dean's nose with his shirt. He wrapped a supportive arm across Dean's midsection, covering his son's hand with his own, grabbed his other arm and hefted his son to his feet in one sweeping motion. Dean groaned loudly and then gagged, audibly swallowing against the nausea that was sloshing in his stomach. Dean was curled over at the waist, both his hand and John's supporting his injured belly. John hustled him forward, manhandling him past curious bar patrons who were all watching the Winchester Wonder Hour. John wished they'd all mind their own business and go back to drinking.

They continued to the door, baby step by baby step and were almost out of there when Dean gagged again and then moaned, his legs nearly giving out from under him. John's head pounded with frustration. "Damn it, Dean, not now! Come on!" The instant the words tumbled from his lips, John regretted them. He felt Dean stiffen and clear his throat, his son's breath coming louder and faster, like he was concentrating intently.

"S'rry," Dean slurred.

John ignored the ping in his heart and took the bull by the horns, taking most of Dean's weight and double timing so he could get them the hell out of there, away from prying eyes.

When they managed to struggle through the front doors, John was struck with relief.

And Dean was stuck with the urge to spew. He gagged, sputtered and then threw up everywhere, causing both he and John to stumble forward in the dirt. Dean continued to violently wretch and John just held on, keeping his arm secured around his son's middle and another on his back, his fingers scratching a vague pattern of comfort against Dean's jacket.

"Get it out, Dean. Get it out. You're okay. You're fine."

Except he could tell that Dean wasn't fine. As the heaving gradually subsided, John felt the muscles of his son's stomach stop spasming and relax against his outstretched arm. But any relief was short-lived as subtle tremors originating from Dean's upper chest were soon coursing out through his back.

"Dean?"

The trembling grew worse and John could hear the minutest sound of a sniffle, followed by a hushed moan of what could've only been "Sammy".

Aw god. The sound hurt his heart and he knew the only reason Dean's emotions were so visible was due to the alcohol and the vulnerability that accompanied being sick and hurt. John was suddenly pissed. Pissed off at Sam for leaving. Pissed off at himself for driving him away. Pissed off at Dean for caring so much. And pisssed as hell that a part of him wanted to curl around his boy and join him in weeping because he felt just as bad, if not worse.

In the end, John gave Dean one minute to cry for his brother. He never said a word, tightened his grip, gave him a hug or a tender pat of comfort. He just let Dean cry.

When the minute was up, John tugged on Dean's shoulder and hustled him upright. "Let's go."

"Dad." Dean turned his head and looked at him and John had to suppress a shudder. His son's eyes were bright green and red rimmed ; huge and vulnerable like a little boy's and reflected such an air of loss and abandonment that it took every ounce of strength that John possessed not to look away. Then Dean's eyes fluttered shut and he sagged in John's arms, passed out cold. John scooped Dean into his arms and headed for the car, knowing he'd be haunted by that look in his son's eyes for the rest of his life.

John looked up from the computer screen at the sound of Dean's pitiful moan of misery. His eldest son was curled under the covers of his bed, sheets spotted with blood and damp with sweat. Dean's face was one mass of black and blue and John knew the rest of his body was covered in similar marks too, even if he couldn't see them.

But he knew the moan wasn't exclusively a result of the bruises. He suspected that had more to do with the tequila and vodka and whiskey and beer Dean had consumed the night before. Dean moaned again, not entirely awake, but not in the confines of peaceful sleep either. John decided the kid needed to be put out of his misery. The sooner the better.

"Dean, wake up," he ordered, pitching his voice purposefully loud and gruff.

Dean startled awake with a jump, nearly tumbling off the bed. He searched out John with red rimmed hollow eyes that echoed the devastated look he had given John the night before. When the shock wore off, the physical ramifications of Dean's night crept across his face. Dean's face turned green and he gagged, throwing a hand up to his mouth as he fell off the bed and made a desperate clamor for the bathroom.

Seconds later, John heard the sound of violent heaving, his own gut lurching in sympathy as he listened to Dean's stomach turn itself inside out. The retching was accompanied with the sound of pained grunts and groans, the vomiting no doubt aggravating bruises and torn muscles from Dean's beating. The disgusting noises continued for another ten minutes before Dean stumbled out of the bathroom, looking markedly worse than when he had gone in, if that was even possible. He sat down on his bed, his head hung low, looking like he wanted to drop dead right there.

John reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a beer. "Heads up."

Dean glanced up and John tossed the beer over. His son caught it, looking at John with surprise. "What's this for?"

"Hair of the dog. Drink it. Make you feel better. Only one though. I don't want you drunk on the hunt."

Dean popped the beer and held back a shudder of disgust before swallowing a healthy portion down. "Hunt?" he asked, burping. "What hunt?"

"Finally figured out where that bitch has been holing up. Think I know who her first victim is too."

Dean slammed back the rest of the beer. "Who?"

"Kid of the bar owner from last night. Her son went missing about a week ago playing in the woods. Woods that just happen to border the area I think Clara's working out of. Age fits too. He's eight."

Dean belched and ran a hand through his hair. "Who the hell's Clara again?"

"The witch, Dean," said John sharply. "We've been through all of this. Or weren't you paying attention?"

"Yes, sir, I was paying attention."

"Right. Then how many victims does she take every year?"

Dean paused. "Three."

"Six. Get your damn head in the game."

"Sorry," muttered Dean, embarrassed, unable to look John in the eyes. "Lot's been going on."

"Nothing's been going on," spit John, fuming. "Clara Wells. Born 1879. In 1899 she gets married, gets pregnant. Her husband dies in a freak hunting accident and her son Jacob is born. She raises him on her own, all the while trying to make ends meet without her husband. She she gets creative. Turns to witchcraft to help pay the bills and cuts a few corners so to speak. The townspeople get wind of it and take her and her son. The boy gets burned alive and she gets away. Then she gets pissed."

"Understandable."

"She takes six victims. Three around the time Jacob was born and three around the time he died. She takes kids…generally boys around the same age, but every once in awhile, she gets desperate and snatches whoever she can get her hands on. She keeps the victims for a week or two, presumably tortures them and finally…"

"Burns them alive, just like her son," Dean finished.

"Right." John looked Dean up and down then, noting the bruises, cuts and broken skin and the pained way he held himself. Not to mention the hollowed out, dead tired look in his eyes. "You really up for this?"

Dean visibly livened up and some of the pain lines seemed to disappear from his face. Whether he was faking or genuinely pumped, John couldn't tell. Dean always had been a good actor.

"Absolutely, sir," answered Dean, puffing out his chest with forced gusto. "Let's make like a tree and get the hell out of here. Make us a campfire out of Bewitched."

Satisfied with Dean's enthusiasm, John nodded in agreement. "Good. Pack your stuff. We leave in twenty. Wear comfortable shoes."

"Yes, sir."

It was a testament to both John and Dean's mental state that they drove in silence towards the supposed location of the witch's lair. Dean was preoccupied, his inner voices berating him for losing Sam and that, mixed with a hefty dose of pain left his head pounding so hard that he didn't need to add a screaming heavy metal rocker into the mix. He felt miserable. The beer had taken the edge off his hangover, but not the aches and pains he had sustained in the fight the night before. His nose, miraculously not broken, throbbed like a bitch with every breath he took and his chest and stomach, well, just sitting down was a challenge. He figured he'd cracked at least a rib or two and his stomach pulsed constantly where he'd been punched and then kicked in the bullet wound. His lower back was throbbing too and he figured he'd be pissing blood for at least a day or two.

But none of the physical pain could hold a candle to the way his heart hurt since Sam had left. It actually did hurt. Sometimes it hurt even to breathe. It was almost easier for him to pretend Sam had died. Then he didn't have to think about the way his brother had simply packed a bag and walked out, ditching him, making him feel like the biggest failure in the history of big brothers. Little brothers were supposed to look up to you and want to be just like you when they grew up, not walk away from you and everything you'd ever taught them the first chance they got. Every time he thought of Sam, it was like a knife plunging in his chest. And if that wasn't bad enough, he actually missed the kid. Desperately missed him. Sammy was his best friend. His only friend really.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do with himself. He kept glancing in the back seat, unable to help himself, half expecting to see Sam back there reading one of his books or listening to his crappy music through head-phones.

Dean craned his neck to peer back once again, swearing he could hear a Cranberries song in the distance.

"Will you quit looking, huh?" His father bellowed, scaring the crap out of him, jarring his bruised body. "He's not going to magically appear, okay. Sam's gone and he ain't ever coming back! And if your head ain't in the game for this hunt, you can get out of the car now and walk back to town!"

Dean's gut clenched like he'd just been punched. His face grew hot and he felt embarrassed and weak. "No sir," he replied, his throat dry with nerves.

"What was that?"

Dean cleared his throat. "No sir, I'm good. Ready to blow this bitch off the planet," he said, making sure his voice was strong and booming.

John nodded, his face smoothing out, looking softer, almost regretful. "Good." He soon pulled off into a tiny forest parking lot mostly for campers and mobile homes. The lot was completely deserted.

"Looks like we made it in the off season, huh?" remarked Dean as he got out of the car, trying like heck not to look in the back seat again.

John opened the trunk and pulled out weapons and a bag of camping gear, tossing it at Dean. He nodded up towards a rocky cliff. "Her house is somewhere up there. Not accessible by car."

"How does she get around then? Broomstick? She doesn't sound like the hiking type."

"Power, Dean. She's harnessed all that hate and anger and grief and turned it into pure evil power."

"How do we gank her then?"

"Find the source of that power and destroy it."

"Wait, I thought you were supposed to burn witches."

"Oh, she'll burn. Once all her powers have been taken away. Until then, it'll be like trying to set water on fire."

"Great." Dean slung the backpack over his shoulder, groaning lightly at the way it tugged at his ribs.

John eyed him with equal parts concern and annoyance. "You're not too busted up for this hunt are you? Tell me now if you are. Once we're out there, we're out there. There's no turning back."

Dean fiercely shook his head. "Just some bruises, sir. I'm fine." He set out with determination, looking up at the cliff. "How far to the Blair Bitch Project up there?"

"Three miles, all uphill. Be careful too. Lots of rocks and slippery edges around."

"She sure doesn't like company, huh?"

Dean waited for a retort or an annoyed sign, but then he realized that Sam wasn't there to play volley with his banter. That just left John, who wasn't quite as up on Dean's pop culture references. Sometimes he thought John didn't even hear him, too intent and caught up in the hunt. He shut up and put one foot in front of the other, his body already shuddering in protest. He knew this day was going to suck. The only bright spot was that at the end of it, he'd be so tired and in so much pain that he wouldn't have the energy to think about Sammy.

That would only turn out be partially true.

Two hours later and Dean wasn't thinking about much of anything except trying not to throw up as he and John hiked through a dense forest of trees up the rocky hilltop. His body ached all over and he was hot and sweaty, covered in bug bites and there was a huge blister on his right toe. He was sure if he took his shoe off it would be filled with blood.

Not that it mattered.

As he had shuffled pitifully across the rocks and gotten deeper and deeper into the woods, he realized that he had lost his purpose in life. With Sam gone, he didn't have anyone to protect or take care of, be responsible for or worry about. It was just about him now and he didn't know what he was supposed to do with that. He felt empty, like someone had removed his heart from his body and replaced it with a bag of mush. He couldn't look anyone in the eye, not strangers, not his father, not even himself in the mirror. They could see. They could see why his brother had left him. He wasn't strong enough, smart enough, or fun enough. He wasn't good enough. He hadn't been the best brother he could be. He had failed. That's why Sam had left. He was sure of it.

"Be sharp. Keep your eyes open." John said, climbing over a huge boulder in front of them. "Should be there any time now."

"Thank god for that," Dean mumbled, hefting himself over the boulder behind his father. The movement overextended him and he was hit with a bout of dizzying nausea. He lost his grip on the large rock and rolled off, coming to land with a loud "Oomph" on the ground, his head just missing smashing into a jagged rock.

"Dean? What the hell was that?" His father appeared overhead, looking down at him.

Dean swallowed back the urge to vomit and tried to get his breath back. "Jus' tripped," he managed, struggling to get up.

John sighed. "I should've left you in town. You're not up for this Dean. You shoulda told me."

Dean grunted and stumbled up to his feet, his arm wrapping across his midsection. "M'fine, I swear!"

"Stop lying, damn it! You're not up for this and it could get us both killed. And that little boy too. You want that on your conscious?"

Dean took a sudden step forward and his stomach lurched. He gagged and then violently dry heaved, sending liquid acid up his throat and making his already sore stomach and ribs throb with pain.

"You should've just gone with your brother, Dean. If this is how you're gonna be, you're no good to me at all."

The words hit Dean right in the heart and for a terrifying moment, he couldn't breathe. He wheezed against the snot and tears that the vomiting had induced and was finally able to suck in some air. He spat out the remaining bile from his throat and shakily stood up, desperate to see Sam standing next to John with his doe-eyed sympathetic expression, ready to have Dean's back. But all he saw was John's glare of disappointment and he wanted to die. He took a moment to swallow past the feelings of being a worthless failure and straightened up, holding his head high. "I'm ready, sir,' he assured with a mock salute to his father.

"You'd better be."

They stepped over the boulder together and just ahead, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst a cluster of huge, vibrant green trees, was a white stone house with smoke billowing up from a chimney.

"Hmmm, looks like the house made of gingerbread," said Dean. "What's the plan?'

"The plan is we hang back here and figure out exactly where she is. We don't want her knowing we're here until the last possible second."

"Oh, sweetie, it's entirely too late for that," came an enchanting voice from behind them.

John and Dean both turned in surprise and came face to face with a beautiful woman with long curly blonde hair and emerald eyes. She was dressed in a cascading, layered white tank dress with sparkling silver earrings and a small glass pendant strung around her neck. She resembled a young blushing bride or maybe a goddess. An angel even.

She was ethereal in her beauty. Almost like a painting. Absolutely mesmerizing.

She was the devil.

John scrambled for his gun, but the witch was too quick for him. She touched his arm and sent him flying through the air. He crashed into one of the pine trees, knocking his head, and fell to the ground unconscious.

"Dad!" yelled Dean, feeling completely helpless and vulnerable.

The witch smiled and ran a hand down the side of his face. "How about a little fun, handsome boy?"

She touched his chest and there was a flash before his eyes accompanied with a blinding burst of pain in his head. Then, just as quickly, the pain was gone, and the witch was no longer in front of him. He glanced out towards the trees where his father had fallen, noting with relief that his father was waking up. To the right of John, he saw Sam, desperately trying to escape the clutches of the witch, who was batting him around like a dog toy.

"Sammy," Dean murmured, his mind knowing that something wasn't quite right or even real with this picture, but his heart not giving a damn. He had to save his brother. "Sam!"

Dean darted past a confused John and charged the witch, jumping on her back. He pulled out his knife and stabbed her with it, but the knife had no effect. It was like he was stabbing dead air.

"Go to hell you bitch! You hurt my brother, I'll kill you!"

"What the…"

Before he could get out any more words, he was flying through the air. He crashed violently on the ground, flailing awkwardly, still looking around for Sam, who was nowhere to be found.

"What'd you do to my brother?"

The witch stood over him, smiling innocently. "Your brother? What are you talking about, sweetie? You must be seeing things."

Dean finally realized the ruse and his gut sank.

"I think you need a little rest to clear your fuzzy head."

The witch flicked her wrist and Dean was once again in the air. He smacked chest first into the trunk of a pine tree, his cracked ribs breaking on impact.

"Ahhhh!" he cried out as the bones burst inside him, filling his abdomen with an agonizing throb. He dropped to the ground, stars in his eyes from the pain, his body trembling.

"Dean!" he vaguely heard his father shout in the distance.

The witch was over him again and he was powerless to put up a fight. "Night, night honey." She gripped his head and slammed it against the forest floor. Dean was out cold.

TBC


	3. Part Two

**Part Two**

John groggily realized that he and Dean were being floated through the air into the witch's house. He tried to turn around and stop the momentum, but it was like his body was being sucked towards a magnet. The force was far too strong for him to escape.

He gazed upwards at the witch, who was walking alongside him. She gave him a saucy wink. "It's no use, hunter. I'm sorry." She moved over to Dean and whispered something in his ear, her eyes briefly flashing violet. Then she ran her hand down the middle of Dean's chest, eliciting a soft moan from Dean even in his unconscious state.

John tried pressing his feet into the ground, desperately trying to stop his movement. "What did you do to him? Leave him alone!"

The witch chuckled. "Oh honey, he'll be fine. Provided you behave. I've heard of you, John Winchester. You've taken out a few of my sisters over the years."

"I'm going to take you out too!"

"You can certainly try."

John and Dean were in the house now, and being dragged through an old-fashioned, stone kitchen with a refrigerator on legs and a huge oven that reminded John of a fairy tale. Next to the oven was a large pantry with glass bottles filled with herbs labeled thyme, sage, hellebore, the works. On the top of the pantry were two blue glass bottles with spell work etched in the side that John thought he recognized from some of his research.

"Let me show you to your room."

The witch hustled them through a door way and suddenly they were bumping down stone stairs that led to a cellar. The steps jarred painfully against John's back, but it was Dean who was getting the worst of it. His son was sliding down the stairs on his side, his busted ribs banging on each and every stair. By the time they fell in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, Dean was fully conscious and struggling to breathe.

"Enjoy your stay, darlings. I'll be back soon."

The witch disappeared, slamming a huge oak door shut behind her at the top of the stairs. It left the room shrouded in dingy darkness save for two skylights near the top of the tall stone walls and a strip of light under the door. The cellar was silent except for the sounds of Dean's pained and labored breathing. The horrible sound turned John's stomach, making him want to puke.

John spread his palm across Dean's abdomen, trying to will the pants bouncing his hand up and down to settle. He needed to calm Dean down, to help him manage his pain and make sure that everything was going to be all right.

John shifted his hand from Dean's stomach to his leg, giving it an awkward pat. "It'll be alright. Just relax."

Dean seemed to actually grow even tenser and shuddered, his face going white with pain.

John didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to ease his son's pain and it made him want to throttle something. That had always been Sam's job. Sam's mere presence could ease Dean in a way that no one else ever could. Sam just knew how to talk to Dean, how to handle him. He cursed Sam in his mind once again, pissed that he wasn't there to work his magic and calm his brother. It was all on him now.

"You okay?"

Dean groaned and put an arm over his eyes, lying back on the ground. "Yeah."

"Dean," John warned.

Dean continued to lay back, just breathing; the very act itself causing his body to quiver with pain. "M'good. How we…" Dean paused, groaning, " gonna get outta here?"

"I'm working on it."

"Think if we called Sammy, he'd come get us?"

As soon as the words left Dean's mouth, his face fell, like he had just remembered Sam wasn't around. The mention of Sam followed by the pained look on Dean's face triggered a wave of angry heartache inside of John. "No he wouldn't, Dean, because he left! He left me and he left you and he doesn't care what happens to us, so shut the hell up about Sam. I don't want to ever hear his name again!"

Dean glanced at him like he'd just kicked him the gut. Might as well have. He curled up protectively, scooting away from him. "Sorry."

There was a muffled sob that echoed off the stone. At first, John thought it was Dean and he was horrified at the thought. Then the sound came again and he realized it was coming from behind him. He turned around and was startled to see a little boy tucked into a corner, unnoticeable in the darkness. He recognized the kid as the boy in the picture on Mike's wall.

"Hey… hey… Joey, right?"

The boy tried to make himself smaller, crumpling away from him, much like Dean had done seconds before. What was it with him and driving all the kids away?

"It's alright. We're here to help you. I met your mom Mike the other night. She's real worried about you."

"You saw my mom?"

"Yeah," John answered. "In the bar where she works. I'm-I'm John."

He ghosted his hand over Dean's shoulder, but didn't dare touch him. "This is my boy, Dean."

"But… but, didn't she get you both too?" the boy asked, edging out of the darkness. He had blonde hair and warm brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that John hadn't noticed in the pictures at the bar. It made the kid look even more like Dean and John was struck with the sudden overwhelming need to make sure he saved him at whatever cost.

"It's all part of the plan, kid." He glanced at Dean, squeezing his knee again, trying to give him the warmest, most laid back look possible. "Right, Dean?"

Dean studied him and then John watched as his son's body relaxed, some of the pain visibly leaving his features. He actually gave John a quarter of a smile, which warmed John's chilled heart. "Yeah, dad."

"You okay?" John asked as Dean tried to straighten up into a sitting position. Dean grunted as he struggled up and John placed his hands against Dean's injured ribs, bracing them so it wouldn't be so painful. Dean grimaced against the pressure and then accepted the help, easing himself into a sitting position. He scooted himself back a few inches so he could rest against the moss covered stone wall.

"I'm good," Dean assured. "So what's the plan? How we gonna MacGyver out of this one?"

John stood and dashed up the stairs to the heavy door. He tried to twist and pull and shimmy the door knob, but it wouldn't budge. He kicked the door with his foot in frustration. "Think she's working a spell to keep the door sealed."

"You didn't think it was gonna be that easy, did you, dad?"

John ignored Dean and jogged back down the stairs, looking to Joey. "Joey, how often does the witch come down here… open that door?" he asked, nodding to the door at the top of the stairs.

"I don't know."

"Come on, come on, think! We need to know," John commanded.

Joey got a frightened look on his face and curled into himself like he was trying to disappear. "Don't know."

"There's gotta be something!" John inquired, growing more and more irritated.

"Dad," warned Dean, nodding vaguely in Joey's direction. "Easy on the kid."

"We don't have time for easy, Dean. Sooner or later, she's going to come back here and take this kid and burn him alive!"

Joey sobbed and hid his face in his arms, his legs quaking with fear.

"Damn it," John cursed, simultaneously annoyed and feeling like a monster.

Dean pitched himself forward, bracing an arm against his broken ribs and stood up with a ragged moan. He dragged himself over to Joey, pretty much collapsing next to the kid.

Joey curled up further away, terrified.

"Joey, listen man, it's okay," Dean began in a calm, but non-patronizing voice. "We're here to help you," he continued, his hand lightly tickling Joey's shoulder.

Joey uncurled slightly.

"That's it, that's it. You don't have to be afraid of us." Dean let us hand fall down completely on the kid's shoulder.

John stood back and watched Dean in fascination almost as if he were watching a stranger rather than his own son.

Dean continued. "We're gonna help you, okay. We're gonna get you out of here and back home safe to your mom. Does that sound good?"

Joey nodded, wiping away a stray tear.

Dean squeezed Joey's shoulder. "Okay, what can you tell us about the witch? Anything that could help us distract her or stun her so we can all get out of here?"

Joey swallowed hard and nodded at the skylight. "Right after it gets dark… she comes in and gives me food and reads me this story. She calls me Jacob. She's not so scary then. She just seems real, real sad."

"Jacob?" Dean repeated, looking to John. "Wasn't that the name of her son that got murdered?"

"Yeah," John confirmed.

Dean looked back to Joey. "That's good. That's real good, Joey. When she comes in, just do what she wants, okay. That might give us the time we need to distract her and get out of here."

"Okay," said Joey.

Dean gave his shoulder another squeeze and struggled back up, his eyes clenching shut against the pain. He stumbled back over to John and more or less fell to the ground.

"So what do you think?" Dean asked in a hushed tone.

John couldn't speak for a second, too proud of his son to trust himself saying anything out loud.

"What?" Dean asked, squirming. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "It… it sounds like it's worth a shot. She might have some sort of psychotic break around sun down. Her guard'll be down. That'll give us the chance to get upstairs and break the witch bottles in the kitchen."

"Witch bottle? What the hell's a witch bottle?"

"I saw them when she was dragging us in here. It's a glass bottle filled with bones and hair and bodily fluids. It's normally meant to ward off a witch. But I think she's doing the exact opposite. Storing all of her power outside of herself to keep it safe and keep her invincible."

"So… what, we just break the glass jar and Maleficent goes poof?"

"Maybe. She might have a spell protecting them too, who knows. But it's a shot. She lives out in the middle of nowhere with a kid or two for company. She probably never had to worry about anyone trying to break them."

"Makes sense."

"So we wait for her. Play it cool when she comes in. You stay with Joey, keep her distracted. I'll get upstairs, break the bottles. Once her power's dissolved, she can be killed like a human."

John pulled a knife from a hidden pocket in his jacket and handed it over to Dean. "That should do the trick. We can burn her afterwards, wipe her off the map for good."

Time dragged as they waited for night to fall. John in particular was about to go mad from inactivity. He felt powerless and out of control, the two things he hated most in the world. The sounds of Joey sniffling and of Dean's increasingly wheezy gasps for breath, accompanied by the occasional moan and groan when he shifted position were enough to give John one splitting headache of concern.

Finally though, darkness fell. The only light coming into the basement was from the tiny line under the door at the top of the stairs.

"Any time now," said John, focusing on the door. "You keep her busy."

"Yes, sir," breathed Dean, glancing over at Joey. "Hey Joey, you good with this?"

There was an audible gulp and then John could make out Joey nodding in the shadows.

"Excellent," said Dean.

The door suddenly rattled.

"This is it," said John.

The door creaked open and Clara walked through, lingering at the top of the stairs, the light from the house framing her face, making her blonde hair glow and her green eyes sparkle, her lithe figure curved amply in all the right places. She looked like Heidi Klum. "Jacob, you brought your friends. I'm so happy," she remarked in a wonderfully saccharine voice. She glided down the stairs with a book under her arm and a tray in her hands holding a sandwich, a glass of milk and a lit candle.

John waited, just biding his time, letting her pass him by and step over to Joey. She set the tray of food down next to the boy and tousled his hair lovingly with her hand. She seemed almost human to John in that moment, just a woman about to read her son a story.

But she wasn't. She was a witch who planned on murdering an innocent boy. And he had to stop it.

Joey shook with terror and Dean quickly hopped next to him, hanging his head low and innocent. "I wanna hear a story too."

Clara seemed pleased. "It would be my pleasure." She sat down cross legged in front of Joey and Dean, a look of sad realization gradually spreading across her face.

Dean snuck a glance at John and that was it. On your mark, get set, go. John tore up the stairs two at a time, the muscles in his legs and feet throbbing. He managed to make it to the top before the witch caught on. He slammed the door behind him and sprinted towards the kitchen, ignoring the horrendous sound of the witch shrieking behind him, right on his tail. He made it into the kitchen and took a flying leap for the witch bottles, his fingers managing to catch on the first one and tilt it off the shelf to the ground.

John angled for the second bottle, but the witch quickly extended her arm, chanting something under her breath that he vaguely recognized. The bottle lit up and John nudged it, but it was like it was cemented to the shelf. It wouldn't move.

The first bottle however was beyond saving. It crashed to the floor, a fluorescent light beaming and smoke puffing out along with a mixture of urine and blood and bones as glass exploded everywhere.

"No!"

The witch bawled in agony and John watched in fascination as she aged fifty years before his eyes, turning into an old woman, her hair turning grey, her face wrinkling, her fingers curling with arthritis. John took the opportunity to pounce. He picked up a piece of glass from the fallen witch bottle and swung it at her, ripping open a cut across her abdomen. She knocked him away, but he kept at her with the glass, hitting his mark on her right cheek, nearly taking out her eye.

She regained her composure and held out her arm, sending John crashing to the ground. "It was a good try, sweetie."

"Screw you!" he grunted, struggling to stand. He fingered another piece of glass and stabbed it into the old witch's leg.

The witch yelped, but held her stance. "I wouldn't keep doing that, honey. I can handle it but your boy can't."

"What?" John shot up and dove again for the second witch bottle. But as soon as he touched it, shocks went through him and he was repelled from it, sending him crashing to the floor.

"You should really go check on your son."

"What did you do to Dean?" John demanded.

"I didn't do anything, sweetness. You did."

John was moving again, being forced back down into the cellar, but slower than before, like she had lost some of her mojo. He landed in a heap at the foot of the stairs, the air forced out of him. John took a mere moment to collect himself before he glanced around the cellar maniacally, desperate to find Dean. "Dean! Dean, where are you? Report, son, report!"

He found Dean pressed up against the stone wall, his arm pressed against a bloody wound in his leg. His face and chest were bleeding too. In the exact same places that John had slashed the witch.

"I don't… don't know," Dean muttered, confused. "I just started getting cut, like some invisible dude was attacking me or something."

John thought for a minute, his mind balking in horrible realization. "Oh damn it!"

Joey, who was sitting next to Dean, tucked his face into Dean's arm at John's explosive bellow.

"What?" asked Dean weakly.

"She's bound you to her. As long as she still has her powers, whatever we try and do to her, happens to you too."

A sick amused chuckle sounded from the top of the stairway and then the door slammed shut, leaving them ensconced in darkness except for the strip of light under the door.

Hours or days could've passed, Dean wasn't sure. The skylight had gone from dark to light to dark to light once or twice and the witch hadn't been back.

The cuts he'd received vicariously through the witch weren't too bad, though they did sting like a mother. His ribs were the things really hurting him now, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He wanted to curl up around a cotton-covered block of ice and sleep for about a week. But he didn't have that luxury.

Joey had scooted next to him and had put his head on his shoulder, alternating between uneasy sleep and small sobs of panic, which Dean did his best to quell. Helping Joey dulled the ache of not having Sam around and it gave him a purpose, another being to focus on.

Now Joey sobbed continuously, his tears soaking the sleeve of Dean's jacket. Dean curled his arm around the kid, rubbing his back in comfort. "Hey… it's okay. You don't have to be scared. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but we got her right where we want her." Joey wiped his face and nodded, holding onto Dean tightly. "You just gotta be brave, little man. Just a little while longer."

Dean focused his gaze on his father, who was pacing around the cellar like a rat trapped in a cage. He was pawing at the windows and the doors one moment and mumbling a mess of Latin the next. It was all starting to give Dean a massive headache. He was sore and tired and cranky enough that he wasn't shy about calling his father out. "Dad, will you please just sit down. Please. There's no way out of here. Not right now."

John gave Dean a look that could've frozen fire.

Dean sighed. "When she comes back, we'll take her out."

"How?"

"Knock her around. Weaken her until we can get upstairs and break the other bottle."

"No Dean. Not with you bound together."

"What? This is good news, dad. She has a weakness now. She can be hurt."

"Yeah and so can you!"

"So? I'm tough… I can take it."

"Dean… you're not… taking it. Damn it, we need to find another way."

The basement door creaked open, surprising them all. They all looked up to the stairs and waited but Clara didn't appear.

Dean and John exchanged glances and both inched closer to the stairs. A few beats passed and Dean's heart hammered in his chest, waiting in dread for what was about to happen. He heard Joey in the corner, barely suppressing a sob.

Suddenly, Clara was at the top of the stairs. She blew past Dean and John and went straight for Joey, snatching him up. Joey shrieked in terror. Without hesitation, Dean picked himself off the ground and staggered towards the witch. He pulled back his arm, winding up for one of his patent knockout punches. He braced himself for the pain and the daze and then let it rip, his fist hitting the witch square in the eye.

"Dean!" his father shouted.

Dean's own eye lit up like a firework and he stumbled back, his whole cheek bombed out from the blow, his face on fire, his vision wavering as his eyes watered. Definitely don't hit like a girl he thought as he fell back, stunned, to the floor.

The witch was stunned too but not for long. She held onto Joey and headed for the stairs. "It's time to say hi to my Jacob, honey."

"No," Dean muttered weakly. He looked to his father, who was standing motionless, a look of unsure horror on his face. "Dad, you gotta stop her."

John looked at him with hesitant, tortured eyes.

"Please, dad," Dean begged. "Just do what you to have to do. Rather die and know that the kid lived."

John stared at him for a long time before finally nodding. "Okay…" he said in an uneasy tone.

"Get the bitch!"

John took one more second's pause and then put on his game face. He whistled after Clara, who was now halfway up the stairs with Joey. "You wanna take the boy, you're going to have to go through me."

Clara stopped short and turned around, a pleasant smile on her face. "Is that so, lovely?"

"Yeah, that's so." John rushed the stairs and took Clara down with a flying tackle that caused Dean's insides to mash together painfully. Clara fell on the stairs, losing her grip on Joey. "Run kid! Run the hell out of here!" screamed John as he pummeled the witch with punches, trying to keep her down so Joey had a chance to get away.

Dean felt each and every punch, the pain excruciating; each blow dulling his senses and sending him closer and closer to unconsciousness. But as he saw Joey fearfully scurry up the stairs away from Clara, he knew all the pain was worth it. When Joey reached the very top, he abruptly stopped and turned back to look at Dean.

"Go Joey!" Dean groaned amidst taking punches. "Get out of here! Find your mom!"

Joey gave him one last terrified glance before he took off. Dean collapsed to the ground in relief, barely conscious. He noticed the reign of blows had stopped and realized in horror that the witch had regained the upper hand with John. She had his father in a tight chokehold and then launched him into the stone wall. John bashed against it hard and slammed to the floor in a daze.

"Dad!"

The witch rushed Dean then and grabbed him by the shirt collar, hefting him up. "I'll just have to adjust my plans a little and take you instead. You're someone's boy after all," she said, flashing a horrendous smile John's way.

Dean felt himself being lifted and then he was in the air, flying up to the top of the stairs. He landed with a crunch on his right arm, pain exploding in his elbow and shoulder. The witch was right there with him, picking him up once again. Dean dared to look her in the eyes and saw a pit of black emptiness staring back at him. He took the opportunity to spit all the blood that had pooled in his mouth from the punches in her face. The blood hit her in the eyes and then dripped down her face, making her look like an older version of Carrie.

"Go to hell, bitch!"

"Dean!" his dad warned from below.

Dean braced himself for retribution. It came as a punch to the gut square into his bullet wound. "Ohhhh… oh god," he moaned, the pain so sharp he wanted to puke. The witch pulled him up straight and hit him in the same spot, the pain doubling, bringing tears to his eyes.

She straightened him again, her finger wiping away a stray tear from his cheek. He shivered as she touched him. "Sshhh baby boy. You remind me so much of Jacob. You're what he would've looked like…if," she trailed off, her eyes suddenly welling up with tears. "He was so young. I had just started letting him walk home from school by his little lonesome. That's when they got him. My little sweetheart. Later, when they had him strung up, they started the fire at his feet and the smell…I…I wasn't powerful enough to stop them. Not then. I could only save myself but not my Jacob. They took him away from me! They have to pay! So they do. Year after year. I take as many boys as I can and I destroy them just like they destroyed my boy."

"But these boys didn't do anything, Clara," Dean heard John argue. "They're innocent, just like your Jacob."

"My Jacob was a good boy and he didn't deserve to die. His killers were never punished. So it's up to me to right that wrong. The punishment fits their crimes and it is completely justified. Those boy's parents aren't innocent and sooner or later, those boys would turn into the same murderers who killed my son. No, they're not innocent. You're not innocent and he's not innocent. You both came here to destroy me. And now I have to defend myself and get retribution for my son. You brought this on yourselves!"

She turned him so he was facing down the stairs and held him there in limbo for one heart stopping second, like he was on the top of a rollercoaster about to descend. "No!" he heard his father scream a split second before she shoved him down the stairs. His heart leapt in panic as he realized he had nothing to break his fall. He tumbled hard, bouncing his chest, arms and legs in a terrifying and excruciating pinwheel that ended with him collapsed in a twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Everything was a haze of pain and confusion as he lay shattered and bleeding and hurting.

"Hold tight, sweetie. I'll be back for you soon," he heard the witch say somewhere in the distance.

He could hear his father screaming. Maybe even crying. Then he blissfully felt nothing.

TBC


	4. Part Three

**OMG…Hello Cruel World killed me tonight…**

**Thanks everyone for all your reviews and kind words! On with the story!**

**Part Three**

John sat on the floor at the foot of the stairs with Dean cradled in his arms. They had been that way for hours and John's grip only grew tighter around his injured son. He had one arm braced around Dean's back and then other held tight across his chest so he could feel the movement of Dean's breath and the beat of his heart. As long as both of those things were still happening then John could fix the rest. Dean was tough. He was a warrior. He was a hunter.

Dean was his son.

John squeezed Dean tighter, his throat locking up in terror. The thought of Dean not surviving was impossible to him. Not on his watch. Not when he had lost everyone else he'd ever cared about. Dean was going to be fine. He would make sure of it. Even if when all of this was over Dean decided to leave him and go be with Sam or go on some adventure of his own. That was okay with him. He'd be alive. That's all that John cared about at the moment. He just wanted his boy to keep breathing.

A whisper of a moan drifted from Dean's lips and his body shuddered a little.

"Dean," John murmured, running a hand through the hair at the back of Dean's neck.

"Hmmmm," Dean groaned.

"That's it, buddy. Come on, wake up for me."

Dean shifted and burrowed himself closer to John as if he were seeking comfort. John took advantage of the rare opportunity and squeezed Dean tenderly, willing him strength and trying to take his pain away. "You're okay, Dean. Wake up for me."

"Hmmm... Uuuhhh… Sa… Sammy?"

The name stopped John cold for a second, his throat tightening. "No Dean, it's dad."

Dean groaned and then hissed in pain, his eyes fluttering but not opening. "Aahhhh… Sam… that you?"

John gave Dean a little nudge, growing increasingly uncomfortable. "Dean, it's dad."

"Sammy where you been?"

John could barely take it, the lump in his throat growing so big it was threatening to choke him. "Dean… come on… it's dad," he said louder, his voice shaking.

Dean curled tighter against him, his cheek nuzzling against John's leg and it reminded him of when Dean had been a little boy right after Mary had died and would curl up against him every night, looking for comfort.

"Sam… miss you."

John gripped Dean even tighter, his heart pounding, his eyes burning with tears. "Dean…"

"M'sorry, Sammy."

"For what, Dean?" John asked, his heart ready to fall out of his chest.

"Sorry for whatever I did to make you leave."

John sighed against the sudden pain that rippled through his body and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes dripped down his cheeks. He stopped holding Dean and began hugging him, letting his head rest against Dean's neck, his face nuzzling the soft skin and sweaty hair there. "It wasn't you, Dean," John began. "It was dad. I left because of dad. It wasn't you, bro. It was never because of you."

Dean moaned, shifting painfully. "Miss you, Sammy. Miss you so much."

"I miss you too, Dean," said John, his voice a mere sliver of its usual self. "I miss you too."

Dean went lax in his arms and John panicked until he felt the steady reassurance of Dean's heart beating and the shallow but constant up and down movement of Dean's chest as he breathed.

More time passed and John spent the time staring at his son, studying him, trying to memorize every laugh line, scar and freckle. He wanted to know his son, learn every piece of him before it was too late. He needed to know every detail so he would always be able to remember. So he'd have something to hold onto if anything ever happened.

He hadn't done that with Sam. Sure he knew what his son looked like, could determine his moods by one look at his face, but he didn't know the little details that made Sam, Sam and not some overly tall pain in the ass who had his own ideas on how to run his own life. He didn't know the exact shade of Sam's eyes. He knew they were brownish, but he didn't know if they were light brown or dark brown, didn't know if the color was broken up by a line of gold or a dollop of green or maybe both. He knew Sam, he loved Sam, and had probably spent more time with him then most parents spend with their children. But those small details that he never paid attention to or took for granted now haunted him and he didn't know if he'd ever have the chance to see Sam again and satisfy that needy curiosity.

He refused to make that mistake with Dean. Not now. Not when he was so close to potentially losing both his sons. The mere thought of losing Dean, the admission that it was even a possibility sobered John's thoughts right up. He would save Dean and get them the hell out of there. That was it. There was no question.

The only problem was he couldn't remember the spell that could help them get past the lock on the last witch bottle. He could feel it in his brain, just on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn't there. His mind went over and over every spell he'd ever learned, literally hundreds of words of Latin and other witch languages. He could tell you how to change a cat into a dog, a moose into a tiger, could start a fire with his thumb or turn a leaf pink. He could remember every single one, except the one they needed. It made his chest ache. He had to figure out the spell. He had to. It was Dean's only hope. He decided his only recourse at this point was to let it go and hope that it would magically come to him. He prayed to god and the angels they he suspected walked among them. Might've even prayed to a few demons and witches too. Whatever worked.

He wasn't sure of the extent of Dean's injuries, he could only plead with the universe that they weren't life threatening and if they were, that they would hold off on the life threatening part unil he had gotten his son to safety. A cursory exam had revealed a nasty bump on the back of Dean's head that was still oozing a bit of blood, a dislocated shoulder that John had already popped back in to place with nary a grunt from Dean and some definite broken ribs. There were dark angry bruises all over his chest and back as well and it was hard to tell if they were from the fall or the fight with the witch or from the tree the day before or from the fight the day before that. He couldn't keep track or catalog all of his son's injuries anymore. He prayed that the deeper hued bruises weren't indicative of some internal bleeding or other nasty injury that he was helpless to take care of. Dean's breathing was a bit ragged and wheezy, but he was still getting air. And his heart was still beating. Dean was still alive and kicking.

Alive. Dean was alive.

And that's when the spell flew into John's mind, clear as day and he knew what he had to do.

"Dean," John whispered urgently, running his hands over Dean's pockets, trying to find the lighter he knew his son always kept on him. "Come on, dude, wake up." He ran his palm over Dean's stomach. "Sorry, son, but you gotta wake up. We gotta get out of here." He applied pressure to the old bullet wound.

Dean grunted and stirred groggily. "Wha…"

"Dean you with me?" asked John, easing Dean into a sitting position. Dean's eyes were cloudy and filled with pain. "Dean, I need you to focus now!" He commanded, raising his voice to its most authoritative tone.

Dean's eyes cleared a little and he caught John's eye. "Dad?" he panted weakly.

"Yeah?" said John, patting down Dean's jacket pockets.

"You… ahhh frisking me?"

"Where's your lighter?" John demanded, continuing to frisk his son.

Dean reached inside his jacket and produced the lighter, handing it to John. "Joey make it out?"

"He's out." John grabbed a thick tuft of Dean's hair and yanked.

"Owww! What the…"

"I've got the spell," John said, not so subtly nudging Dean to a standing position. "We stake out the top of the stairs and wait. When she opens the door, we overtake her and I get to the last witch bottle and work the spell."

"What does the have to do with giving me a bald spot?"

John placed the hair he pulled from Dean's hand in his palm and then set it on fire with the lighter. The hair burned out in his hand before disintegrating into a small pile of ash. "Need the ash of a victim under her spell. You're under her spell. I rub this on the bottle, recite the incantation and she's as good as human. Then we can kill her. You with me?"

Dean's eyes cleared even more and despite the fact that he looked beat to hell and ready to pass out again, he firmly nodded. "Yeah, I'm with you."

John hefted Dean to his feet and Dean listed to the side, his legs shaky, his body curled up on itself. "Can you make it up there?"

Dean let out a groan of both pain and determination. "Yeah, I'm good."

John didn't believe him for a second. So he wrapped his arm tightly around Dean's waist and strung his eldest's uninjured arm across his neck, gripping his hand in his own. Then he took the first step up. Dean pitched forward, his eyes clenching shut with a gasp of agony.

"Focus, Dean, focus. This might be our only chance out of here."

"Ooooh… oh… yes sir," Dean said, letting John lead him up one step and then another.

"That's it son, that's it. Only a few more steps."

"Hmmmm," Dean gasped, his jaw clenched in fierce determination. He was shaking now, clearly pushing to his limits. John hauled him two more, three more, four more steps and finally, they were at the top. John lowered Dean so he could sit on the steps, kneeling down with his son so he could still keep a firm hold on him.

"Just gotta wait her out. Anytime now," said John.

Dean's reply was a weak nod and a series of shallow wheezes that hung like barbed wire in the air. "Yeah, dad."

Unsure of what to do, John rubbed his hand up and down Dean's back, trying to provide comfort and reassure him; not let his weakened body give out on him too soon. "You did good today, Dean. You sacrificed yourself and you saved that boy's life. That was… good job."

Dean seemed to sit a little straighter at that. He flashed John a half smile. "Thanks."

Then they both sat in silence and waited.

Dean shivered against the cold stone of the stairs, his body one gigantic ache from head to toe. He was vaguely nauseous and fuzzy, his pulse high and frenetic, his body gripped by fever. And he was weak. So damn weak. It reminded him of being shot those months before. He could tell he was fairly seriously hurt, but there wasn't much to be done about it. While he wasn't good enough to be on point or alert enough to take out the witch, he wasn't even close to being at his worst. He was still there, he was still fighting and he was standing next to his father, who for the moment, didn't think he totally sucked. Somehow having a job to do and doing it, knowing that his father was proud of him made the pain and discomfort of his injuries not so bad.

It also made Sam's absence a little more tolerable.

He looked at his dad and though he couldn't see much in the dim light, he could see John's absolute determination to get the job done. Dean tried to take that strength from him and closed his eyes, trying to muster his own iron-clad resolve.

The pitter-pattering of footsteps wafted through the opening at the bottom of the door. Dean and John both snapped out their pre-game meditation and shared a glance.

"This is it, Dean," John whispered. "Just get past her and hold tight. Leave the rest to me," he said, cupping the ash from Dean's burnt hair in his palm. "Still got the knife I gave you?"

Dean pulled the knife out of his back jacket pocket. "Check."

"Good. Give it to me. Something tells me it's going to take a lot to bring this bitch down."

Dean handed over the knife and John tucked it in his jacket. Dean was suddenly struck with a complete panic of possibly losing his dad. Just like he'd lost Sammy. He hadn't really gotten the chance to tell Sam everything that he had meant to him. He looked at his dad's face, focusing where the light reflected off his barely visible eyes, wanted to tell him how much he loved him and how much he meant to him. How he was his hero. "Dad…"

"Don't, Dean," John responded, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. He patted his uninjured shoulder. "No need. Not today. You hear me?"

Dean nodded. The door knob began to twist.

"Sweeties, it's time."

"Damn right, it's time," muttered John.

The door opened and Dean felt John shoving him with all of his strength past the witch and through the doorway, managing to knock the witch off balance and take her down to the floor with him.

John scrambled past both of them and darted into the kitchen, straight for the witch bottle.

"No!" the witch screamed in a horrible, deafening shriek as she got back to her feet.

Dean put his foot out and tripped her, sending her to the ground like a bag of bones. Her impact hit him right in the gut and his air huffed out him. But it was worth it when he saw John reach the witch bottle, spread the ash from his hair across the outside of it and completed the incantation. The witch bottle glowed and then the light shimmered away like broken glass.

Before John had a chance to smash the bottle, the witch took a flying leap from the floor and tackled him to the ground. She pummeled John with punch after punch, Dean's own hands aching from the onslaught against his father.

"Dad!"

John struggled against the witch, trying to bash himself against the shelf to get the bottle to fall. But it was no use, she kept pulling him away.

"Damn it, no!" murmured Dean. On shaky hands and knees, Dean crawled on the floor towards the shelf, feeling at once helpless and sad. He missed his brother and wanted things to go back the way they used to be, knowing that if Sam had been with them right now, his younger sibling would've already had the chance to break the witch bottle and Clara would be a smoldering pile of ash right now.

But now it was just him and dad. Maybe it wasn't as good as the trio they had been, but it was something. They were still a family. That's what mattered. And it would have to be good enough.

Dean slipped past the witch, who continued to throw punches and stood up, his hands securing tightly around the witch bottle like he'd found a golden ticket. Then he threw it so hard against the floor that shards of the glass bounced back up at him as more blood, urine and bones splashed all over the floor.

"Ahhhhhhh!" the witch screamed and her face wrinkled further, her bones protruding and her hair grew another five feet in a pure white color, her eyes almost dead, her clothes decaying until they were only hanging tatters of material, her pendant looking like it weighed so much it would break the frail neck it hung from.

"Time to see your son,Clara," said John, securing his knife in his hand.

Clara could only wheeze, but a smile spread across her face as John stabbed the knife square in her chest.

Dean's chest suddenly seized up with sharp pain and he doubled over, collapsing to the ground. He felt something warm and wet spread out from his chest. He put his hand where it felt like something was dripping and it came back covered in blood.

"Dad," he tried to speak, but I was hard to take a breath. It was like he was breathing underwater. "Dad."

John looked over at him then and did a double take when he saw the blood, his face collapsing into a look of so much horror it was almost comical. It was the last thing Dean saw before a wave of buzzing pain overtook his body and then he was out.

TBC


	5. Part Four

**Part Four**

John was in a nightmare.

"Dean... oh God! Oh son of a bitch! No… no!" He grasped the old woman, shaking her so hard her head threatened to fall off. "Where's the other bottle? You've got another one around here, don't you? I wanna know where it is now!"

The witch merely grinned, blood pooling from her mouth, coating her teeth and dripping over her lips down to her chin, making her look like a demented rabid dog. "Where is it?" John demanded, smacking her so hard he hard bones rattle in her body. Dean's own head bobbed against the floor even in his unconscious state.

"Looks like… I've got my… sacrifice… after all, sugar," the witch sputtered between coughing and choking blood.

A particular violent cough jarred the witch's chest and her pendant sprung out noticeably against her tattered clothes. John spied a tiny etching across it matching the symbols from the witch bottles. He yanked the chain from her neck and threw the pendant on the floor, stomping on it repeatedly as he felt it crumble to pieces against the sole of his boot, sounding like the crunch of bone as blood from the bottle bubbled up and splattered his boot. "Over my dead body, you evil, evil little bitch."

The witch's hair grew even longer and she visibly shrunk an inch or two, hunching over. Her skin was falling off her face, her teeth falling out of her mouth.

"Go to hell, Clara," said John as he stuck the knife in her again, this time right in her heart. "Go to hell."

Clara smiled one last time before coughing up a gallon of blood and then literally disintegrating into bones as she collapsed on the floor. John knelt next to her, pulling out Dean's lighter and ignited her long hair. Her body began to smoke and smolder, the smell of burning hair channeling across the room in a pungent stink.

John took one last glimpse at Clara and then tore over to Dean to get a better look at him. Blood was flowing freely from his chest and he could hear the gurgling of his son's breath, surmising that the knife might've hit one of his lungs. John ripped off his jacket and pressed it against the bloody wound, desperate to get the bleeding under control. "Dean, hey buddy, come on, open your eyes, son. Come on."

Dean didn't respond. He continued to lay limp against the floor, his chest just barely rising and falling, his face nearly translucent it was so pale.

"Okay, it's okay. I'm gonna get you out of here," John assured, not even concerned with the smoke billowing through the cabin as the fire burned through Clara and moved to her furniture. John bent down and scooped Dean into his arms, taking care to keep his jacket firmly pressed against the gaping wound in his chest.

The house flamed around him as he walked out of the house with Dean in his arms, smoke swirling through the air and flames catching the trees.

John didn't give a crap if the whole forest burned down. All he cared about was getting his son to safety. It was three miles back to the car. It had taken them two hours to get up to the house days earlier but that had been all uphill. John estimated he could make it in an hour. He sped off down the rocky trail, his senses sharp, his body thrumming with pure adrenaline, barely feeling Dean's weight or the rocks and stones stabbing at his feet as he hustled down the slope. He had to get Dean to the car as quickly as he could. Failure wasn't an option. Dean wasn't going to die. He couldn't. He just couldn't. He'd give him his own lung if he had to. Didn't matter. He was going to live. He had to live. Damn it he had to live.

"You stay with me, son. Come on. You're not gonna make me call Sam with that kind of news are you? Hell, you'll hear that fight from heaven. And Mary, god, wherever she is, she'll visit me in the night and haunt my ass for the rest of my life. Come on, Dean. Fight, son. Fight. I can't do this without you. I can't. You're my heart, boy. You always have been."

He stumbled on, feeling like he was walking over and over in the same spot. "Fight damn you, you fight! You do every damn thing I say, so you listen to me now. You're going to live, you hear me, live god damn it!"

John dared to glance at Dean's face and all he could see was his son as a little boy. Tears pricked at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry. For your mom and this life and the crazy crap I put you through. And I'm sorry for Sam. That was my fault, Dean. I could've done a million other things, said a million other things and maybe gotten him to stay. I'm sorry you had to lose him. It's not fair on you, Dean. None of it's fair. And you handle it like a soldier. You are so strong and such a good man. I wish I could take credit for that, but I can't because that's all you. I'm so proud of you, son. For the man that you're gonna become and the helluva man that you already are. I love you, son. I love you so much."

Seconds passed and then minutes, a half hour and then an hour. John's brain was numb and his legs were Jell-O. When he saw the Impala and then the flat tires, he felt his spirit wither up and die inside him.

John collapsed to the ground, burying his face into Dean's hair and simply wept. For Mary and for the life they never had together, for the bleak life he had without her, for Sam and for the life he'd forced him to live and finally for Dean and the life they might not live together. He clutched Dean tight, his faith in everything dissolving, his strength, his resolve, gone; feeling so helpless as his son's life slowly ebbed out of his body. "Dean," he pleaded, running his hands over his son's broken body. "Dean please…you're all I've got left," he sobbed, his hand finally resting over Dean's heart. He could feel it beating. Slow.. very slow. But beating. Just like it had after the beatings and the fall down the stairs. Like it had Dean's whole life despite everything.

Dean hadn't given up. Not yet.

That meant John couldn't give up either.

With renewed fervor, John gathered Dean tightly in his arms again and stood up, shuffling to the main road. He'd walk until a car came along or until he had made it to the nearest hospital, whichever came first. That was all there was to it. Dean wouldn't give up on him if the situation was reversed and he definitely wouldn't have given up on his brother. Dean would work himself until he was six feet under and would continue burrowing around in his grave until he realized he was dead.

Dean wouldn't let his family down. John wasn't going to let Dean down.

As it turned out, John didn't have to walk even a mile in Dean's shoes. It was more like 100 yards. He saw a crappy yellow Toyota speeding down the road. John hurried into the center of the pavement, daring the car to pass him. The car screeched to a halt and John nearly collapsed in relief when he saw Joey scurry out to them.

"Dean!" Joey yelled.

Mike was just behind him. "Joey came running into the house and said you'd helped him get away from the lady that took him. He led me here." She started when she saw Dean. "Oh gawd, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. He's still alive," John said, hurrying to the car. "He's still alive."

Mike nodded and dashed back to the driver's seat. "Joey, help them into the back!"

Joey pulled the back seat up so John could get in with Dean. John collapsed into the seat, his body weary and sore, Dean slouched against him like a sack of bones. "Mike, you gotta get us to the hospital now. He doesn't have much time."

"You got it," said Mike as she let Joey settle into shotgun and then screeched down the road.

Hopefully towards Dean's salvation.

John sat in one of the E.R.'s plastic waiting room chairs, numb and in complete shock. He'd been sitting there ever since he'd stumbled in with Dean's bleeding, broken body cradled in his arms. When it had come time for the doctors to take Dean away from him, he'd had a hard time letting him go. He was terrified it would be the last time he'd ever see or feel his son alive again. He'd crumpled in the chair and waited , ignoring his own injuries, telling Mike and Joey that he didn't need any help or food or a place to stay, sending them home. He just needed Dean. He needed him to be okay.

God, please just let him be okay.

"Mr. Winchester?"

It took John a moment to realize the chubby blonde doctor who looked like Miss Piggy was talking to him. He'd been so frazzled coming in that he'd been unable to come up with a decent alias and gone with his God- given name instead.

"Yeah… yeah, that's me," John said, stumbling to his feet on weak and sore legs. "How's Dean? Did he make it?"

"He's alive," she assured with a sweet, sympathetic smile.

There was a rush of relief that ran through John's body so intense that he almost passed out. Tears welled in his eyes and a huge lump choked his throat. A buzzing sound went through his ears, causing him to strain to hear the diagnosis.

"His injuries were quite extensive as you know…"

His ears roared again, but he caught punctured lung, six broken ribs, concussion, dislocated shoulder, contusions on the kidneys, nicked artery, emergency surgery to repair the damages, chest tube.

"Will he be okay?" John asked after collecting his wits.

The doctor nodded. "Barring any complications, he should make a full recovery. He's very strong."

John laughed at that. "Yes he is."

"I'll take you to see him now if you'd like."

"That'd be great," John said, limping after her.

"Sure you don't want to get checked out?" the doctor asked, observing his pain and weakness.

"I'm fine," John assured her. "Really."

"Alright," said Miss Piggy. She led John through some double doors and then down a long corridor until finally she stopped at room 1851. He followed her inside and saw Dean laid out pale on the hospital bed, about a million tubes and indicators strapped to him.

It was the most beautiful thing John could ever recall seeing.

"He's going to be out for quite awhile. You may want to go home , grab some food and a shower. Maybe get some sleep. Come back in the morning."

John sat down in a chair set out next to Dean's bed and grabbed his son's hand, taking it in his own, marveling at its warmth and the steady pulse of life beating through it. "I'll be good here."

"Okay," said the doctor. "If you need anything, his call button is right there," she said, indicating a corded box resting on the blanket covering Dean.

"Thanks."

The doctor left them alone and John grasped Dean's hand even tighter, staring at his son's face, mapping all the freckles and scars and lines once again, grateful for the chance to do so. He fell asleep five minutes later with his head tucked next to Dean's side, his hand still firmly gripping his son's.

TBC


	6. Epilogue

**Thanks so much for reading! I loved writing this story and I'm sad the journey has come to an end. On to the next one I guess! Enjoy the last part!**

**Epilogue**

Dean's eyes fluttered open and he was aware of a dull far off pain coursing through his body. But he also noticed the soft bed underneath him, the blanket tucked around him keeping him warm and the hand squeezing his own. It had to be Sam's. When his vision cleared enough to see, instead of seeing Sam's mop of brown hair, he saw his father's tousled salt and pepper hair right in his face, causing him to nearly jump with surprise. Then all the events of the past few weeks came back to him.

"Dad?"

John roused from a half sleep and smiled at Dean, relieved that he was finally coming around. "Hey kiddo, how you feeling?"

Dean shifted, letting out a pained whimper as his whole body protested the movement. "Peachy."

"Nurse'll be in with some pain meds in a few minutes," John said, reaching up to feel Dean's forehead, needing to touch him. "You've been out for a few days. Before I gotcha here, I thought…" he trailed off, unable to continue.

"I guess I'm alive and kicking, huh?" Dean said, grimacing as he settled against his pillow.

"Yeah."

"You get Clara?"

John nodded proudly. "Yeah. Yeah we got Clara."

"Good," said Dean. "You know if Joey made it out of the woods okay?"

"He sure did. Went back and got his mom. Found me with you. She drove us here."

"He's a good kid. His mom should be proud."

"He's dying to see you. So is his mother. I don't know how much longer I can hold them off."

"Hmmmm."

"You did good back there Dean."

Dean smiled, pleasantly surprised at his father's praise and gentleness. "Thanks."

They both stared at each other, unsure of what to say or what they were supposed to do next. It was Dean who finally broke the silence.

"It's weird."

"I know," John replied, understanding.

"I just…" Dean paused, wanting to say a million things, but knowing none of it would make a bit a difference. "It's so damn strange without him here."

John was silent, unsure how to broach the next topic. "I can call him, you know. Tell him what happened. He'd come rushing back in a second if he knew you were in the hospital."

Dean thought long and hard, his heart pounding, wanting so badly to tell his father to call.

John waited, almost wanting, needing the excuse to call Sam, even if just to hear his voice on the answering message.

"No dad," Dean said finally. "Don't call him."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. We should let Sammy be."

John sat back, regarding his son seriously. "He's gone, Dean. Maybe for good. And if you want to join him… I won't stop you. I won't like it. But I won't stop you."

Dean shook his head, confident in his answer. "No. This is where I want to be. This is where I belong."

John grinned, feeling lighter for the first time since Sam had left. "Kind of hoping you'd say that. I know it's gonna take awhile to adjust… but… I think the two of us… just you and me… make one hell of a team. Whaddaya think?"

"Definitely," said Dean, also feeling a little closer to normal.

"Good," said John. "We'll get you back on your feet, and together we'll take out some more nasty sons of bitches. How's that sound?"

"Perfect," Dean replied, his eyes threatening to shut.

John absently smoothed down his son's hair, noticing Dean's heavy eyes. "Get some sleep. I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Me neither," murmured Dean just before drifting off to sleep.

**That's All Folks!**


End file.
